DANCES WITH WOLVES
ever growing, steadfast
He heard the approach of another, and tensed, ready to run, too tired to fight back anymore this day. But the unexpected happened, and an unknown figure settled beside him, her skin the colour of pale sunlight, save for a patch of deeper colour, a red reminiscent of young tree bark, that covered half her face, and trailed down her neck to her chest. She would not hurt him, he was sure. She had come for some other reason.
Dances found it difficult to look away from her, but eventually he managed to direct his blue eyes back to the trees above, listening intently to the stranger as she spoke. The colt tried to imagine such a bird, and closing his eyes for a moment, he envisioned something similar to her description – a deep darkness, broken by flickers of water over mossy rocks, wildflowers scattered in the meadow, stormy skies, and a sunrise over the sea. It was the most beautiful thing. But the song… Dances With Wolves couldn’t do it justice, and for the briefest of moments, he was jealous of the girl for she possessed this great treasure, and he was denied it. And then he looked at her again, a gentle smile on her lips, a faraway look in her eyes. The sight of her made him smile, too, although for quite a different reason.
Maybe he hadn’t been blessed with such a song, but that didn’t mean he was left empty-handed.
He couldn’t bring himself to pull her away from her wonderful memories, and so, he held his tongue, even though he was desperate to ask her name. Again, he pulled his attention away from her, shifting a little, hoping that she didn’t think him strange for staring, or that he hadn’t made her feel uncomfortable. Her way of thinking, it was refreshing and uplifting, and reminded him a little of the way Guadalupe often spoke, and, as it would for a while, thinking of his mother was like a splash of ice-water in his veins, ragged claws raking his back. As if knowing how to ease the pain, he drew a quick breath, and lowered his chin, turning his muzzle slightly towards the filly, his near eye focussing on her. Nothing else. Her eyes were pretty.
“If you sang, I would listen as intently as you might have listened to that bird,” the words came quietly, unbidden. Dances shifted again, suddenly self-conscious, and if her eyes sought his, he’d look away in embarrassment. “I mean… Um. I don’t think you’d disturb anyone… Err…” He mumbled under his breath, looking out to sea. “Yes!” he continued quickly, eyes darting back to her, agreeing with her before she could speak again. “Glorious.” The word dripped from his tongue and seemed to linger between them. It was a good word. One that he would forever associate with the golden, red-patched girl, and this conversation of theirs.
And then she was asking a question, and Dances felt his mouth go dry when her gaze settled on him. “I guess--” he began to answer, but his words stumbled on his tongue, caught in his throat when she made a small noise, and closed the distance between them, her muzzle brushing his contrasting coat. The gentle touch, and the concern she had for him – he who was a trespasser and stranger, these things had a great effect on him. And the memory of being bitten, of his mother’s face in the trees, two little foals behind her, this overwhelmed him. He knew he was close to crying again, and considered plunging into the sea so that the filly wouldn’t catch sight of his tears, but he was scared, and… He wasn’t ready to leave her. She had spoken to his soul, to his strangeness, and he knew that when he left this place, he would carry her soft voice with him. ‘When he sang, it was a tale of kings and queens, of love…’
“A bit,” he said after a moment, his voice thick with emotion, and yet thin at the same time, like it was about to break at any moment. If she had been anything other than what she was, Dances would have stopped there, and fallen into a stony silence. But something about her made him want to give more, to explain, speak the truth, reveal himself to her, in the way she had laid herself bare before him just moments ago. “But not as much as it hurts inside,” he said with a sob. He couldn’t pretend, not with her. Somehow she had stripped him of the walls he had been building up. Later he would marvel at this. But for now, he stayed exactly where he was. In the distance, he heard the call of a bird. He imagined it was the filly’s black bird with rainbow wings, and for the briefest of moments a smile twitched along his lips, crooked and fleeting.
be the never turning back
TWICE THE HEART ANY MAN COULD HAVE |